


If It Were Not So, I Would Have Told You

by BrighteyedJill



Series: In My Master's House 'Verse [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, Attempted Rape, Bondage, Corporal Punishment, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Guns, Humiliation, Hunting, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-15
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 10:19:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone in the Holmes household is considering who to trust. Tricky thing about trust: preserved, it yields great strength, but once broken, it takes a great length of time to repair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the In Master’s House universe. It’s helpful to have read other stories in the series, but you could probably appreciate this with just the basic facts: It’s a modern day slave AU. John belongs Sherlock, Lestrade belongs to Mycroft, and both the Holmses are important personages in the Empire.  
> Thanks to the fine folks at [](http://sh-britglish.livejournal.com/profile)[**sh_britglish**](http://sh-britglish.livejournal.com/) for explaining sport shooting, [](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/profile)[**morganstuart**](http://morganstuart.livejournal.com/) for providing indispensible character insights, [](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/profile)[**jaune_chat**](http://jaune-chat.livejournal.com/) for late-night plot-fixing gchats and emergency conference calls, and [](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://blue-eyed-1987.livejournal.com/)**blue_eyed_1987** for making things more British.  
> 

_The too-bright desert. John’s gun solid in his hands, his pack heavy on his back, his mates around him, marching on while he stood still. A man-- short but sturdy, dirty blond hair sticking out under his helmet---lay facedown just to the side of the road. Blood leaked from his right shoulder and soaked into the red dirt._

_“Leave him.” Lord Sherlock, in the field uniform of a major, stepped in front of John. Blocked his view of the body—no, the wounded man._

_“I can help him.” John started forward._

_Sherlock stopped him with a hand against his shoulder. “He’s gone, John. I need you.”_

_“Don’t you have enough already?”_

_“I need you.”_

_John could hear his unit marching on, out of sight over the crest of the hill. The bleeding man wasn’t moving. Wounded in the shoulder, blond hair. Something about him seemed familiar. He looked to Sherlock. “What do you want from me?”_

_“Follow me. You’ll find out.” Sherlock glided past John, out onto the road._

_John stared at the body growing cold in the dirt._

_“Captain Watson. John.”_

_John turned. Sherlock’s hand stretched out toward him, pale in the bright sunlight. “Will you come with me?”_  
\--

John woke up lying on his belly. Something had stirred him, and a quick assessment of his surroundings revealed the culprit: a slick finger breaching his ass. John shifted, but the finger followed, pushing deeper inside of him.

“Sherlock, it’s too early,” John grumbled. In point of fact, he had no idea of the time, but he did know that his body needed more rest. His sleep had not been peaceful.

“I’ve been awake for hours.” Sherlock squeezed another slick finger inside of John and stroked both together at a leisurely pace.

John’s sleep-fogged mind tried to imagine what Sherlock might have been doing silently in the dark of John’s room for that long, then gave it up as a bad job. “At least wait until I’m properly awake.”

“I’ve waited long enough.”

John dropped his head onto the pillow and tried to decide whether to struggle or just relax. “You know, I can’t actually give my consent if I’m asleep.”

“It doesn’t matter what your feelings are towards me.” Sherlock’s right hand squeezed the back of John’s neck, above his collar, and pushed his face down hard. With his other hand, he spread his fingers inside John. “I don’t need your consent.”

John squirmed beneath him, and blurted out, “But you do want it.”

“What?” Sherlock’s grip eased up.

“You want my consent.” John felt a rush of relief when Sherlock remained still. At least he was listening. “You don’t want to hold me down as I struggle.”

Sherlock eased his fingers out of John, slowly. The silence stretched until John thought Sherlock might not respond at all. At last, Sherlock said, “I do want to hold you down.” Sherlock’s hand trailed down John’s neck, across the width of his collar, and down his back. “I often think about throwing you to the ground and taking you without shame, as animals do. It’s distracting.”

John pressed his eyes closed. He shouldn’t find that idea arousing. Deep as he was in Sherlock’s power already, he couldn’t allow himself to indulge fantasies that matched up eerily well with his master’s. Besides, he reminded himself, as a slave, he had only himself to look out for his own well-being. “So you like the idea of my fighting you, calling for you to stop.”

“That’s not what I said.” Sherlock’s hand traced around the muscle of John’s arse before curling around his hip. “When I think about this scenario, you are an enthusiastic participant.”

“So you do want my consent.” John turned on his side so he could look up at Sherlock, who was still squeezed in between John and the wall.

“I wouldn’t object to it.” Sherlock’s eyes remained focused on his hand resting on John’s hip.

“Fine, then.” John crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask for it.”

“I shouldn’t need to.” Sherlock’s eyes darkened. “You belong to me. You’re mine to use as I wish.”

John’s jaw clenched tight, and he felt anger clash against the arousal that had been simmering inside him, like water thrown into hot oil. “Perhaps I liked it better when you were shamming,” he said.

“Then make up your mind!” Sherlock released John and sat up, leaning his back against the wall and pulling his knees to his chest. “It’s difficult enough to have a slave in my charge. Must I be saddled with one so...”

“Insightful?” John offered.

“Obstinate!” Sherlock moved quickly, planting his hand on John’s far side and looming over him. “I’d very much like to fuck you now, John. Are you amenable?”

“Why should I be?”

“Why--?” Sherlock’s incredulous expression made John smile. “Because I’m your master!”

“Wrong answer.” John shook his head, sure that he was about to earn himself a slap.

Instead, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, considering. “Because I can ensure you’ll achieve orgasm in return,” he said slowly.

“Getting warmer,” John said.

Sherlock released a rough exhalation of breath, but he didn’t yet move to take what he wanted. Instead, he said, “Because I want you terribly, and may not be able to concentrate on the work until I have you.”

John raised his eyebrows at that admission. He rolled over onto his back, pretending to consider Sherlock’s answer. “Say the magic word.”

“Magic?” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed again. “Now you expect magic from me?”

“I meant _please_ , Sherlock.” John reached out to drag a hand down Sherlock’s side, soothingly. “Say please.”

“Oh for pity’s sake, John.” Sherlock tensed under John’s hand, but he didn’t strike John, didn’t berate him. Instead, he seemed to be waging some internal battle.

“It’s only polite,” John said. He let his hand rove further down, sliding over Sherlock’s flank, then delving back to ghost over the firm muscle of his arse. He was playing with fire, he knew, but the thrill had him rock hard.

Sherlock closed his eyes for the space of one breath, then opened them again. “Please, John.”

John stared back searchingly, looking for any trace of deception. “Do you mean that?”

“Please!” Sherlock growled. No sham in his words or his eyes, just barely-restrained desperation.

John felt an easing within him, like a dislocated joint sliding into place. He said, “Yes.”

Sherlock lunged forward and shoved John hard, tumbling him onto the ground. John caught himself on his hands and the balls of his feet. A moment later Sherlock was on top of him, his weight bearing John down to the floor, trapping his erection against the threadbare rug.

Sherlock’s hands moved along John’s sides, his back, his arms, as if unsure which part of John they wanted most to claim. Sherlock’s cock nudged against John’s ass, leaving damp smudges of pre-come against his skin. John shivered under the rough touch of Sherlock’s tongue, dragging up his shoulder blade, over the scar.

John pressed his face to the floor, closed his eyes, and gulped in breath. He’d begun to harden during their discussion and at seeing the look of desperation in Sherlock’s eyes. Now his body fairly thrummed with pleasure at the feel of Sherlock holding him down. He tried to muster a sense of shame for how far he’d fallen, but any trepidations had been washed away in the flood of pleasure he’d felt when Sherlock asked for his permission.

“Yes,” John said again.

Sherlock answered with a wordless growl. He pressed the full length of his body against John, enveloping him.

John knew Sherlock couldn’t wait much longer, and with his earlier ministrations, John was ready for him. “Go on.” John spread his legs and canted his hips up as best he could. “I can take it.”

Sherlock’s attention distilled to one task, then. He entered John, quick and rough, without ceremony, and began to ride him with single-minded intensity. His breath was hot on the back of John’s neck, warming the leather of his collar. One hand braced against the small of John’s back, holding him in place. Sherlock had abandoned himself entirely to the act—to John.

Small, desperate sounds—wholly unlike Sherlock’s usual brisk baritone—escaped Sherlock’s control. John pushed up against Sherlock’s hold, not resisting, but spurring his master on, spreading his legs for leverage. He almost collapsed when Sherlock’s next stroke hit a spot that sent fissions of pleasure sparking across his skin. Sherlock noticed the change in him and began seeking out the angle that could cause that reaction: a glorious full-body shudder as every one of John’s muscles clenched.

“Do you like this?” Sherlock whispered.

John spared the breath for a laugh, because Sherlock was asking a real question, not engaging in rhetorical dirty talk.

Sherlock reached a hand beneath John and exhaled sharply when he found him hard. “Tell me again. _Please_.”

“Yes,” John gasped.

Now that Sherlock had taken an interest in learning John’s body, he excelled in it as he excelled in everything else. His hand twisted around the crown of John’s cock in just the right way to send John’s back arching, thrusting desperately into Sherlock’s fist and back again onto his cock. Sherlock’s breathless voice echoed John’s. “Yes.”

The rumble of that voice reverberated in John’s chest, buoyed by the sensations that surrounded him and penetrated him. Sherlock held John in his hand, conquered him from the inside, subsumed him, as if Sherlock was the only thing that mattered: John’s God, his master.

Sherlock timed his thrusts perfectly with his hand on John to bring them off together: Sherlock catching his breath and clinging to John just a moment before John tipped over the edge, spilling over Sherlock’s fingers. John’s trembling limbs held them up only an instant after before they both collapsed onto the rug.

For several minutes, John could only breathe. Any thoughts that tried to form were shattered immediately by the triumphant pounding of his blood.

Sherlock remained silent as well, slumped against John’s back, with his nose buried in the crook of John’s neck.

At last, the protesting muscles in John’s shoulder drove him to extract himself from the two-man pile-up. He pushed himself to his feet, holding onto the bed for support. He didn’t look down to see whether or not Sherlock was watching him. “I’m off to the shower.”

Sherlock grunted in response.

John grabbed the robe Anthea had left him last night and padded down the hall to the personal slaves’ communal showers. As he stood under the hot spray, he tried to calm the panicked racing of his heart. John wasn’t losing his mind. He wasn’t giving himself away entirely. He just hadn’t known quite how far down the rabbit hole he’d fallen.

Long after he was clean, John stood with his hands braced against the tile wall, letting the spray sluice down his back, where he imagined he could still feel Sherlock’s hands on him: a touch that burned like a brand, a touch he’d invited.

When he returned, Sherlock was still face-down on the rug in what looked to be a thoroughly uncomfortable sprawl.

“Do you need something?” John asked. He quickly squeezed his mouth shut, reminding himself _not_ to offer Sherlock anything else; he’d already given away too much.

“It’s untenable, this uncertainty,” Sherlock muttered into the rug. He rolled onto his side slowly, and looked up at John. “If I had an expert to consult, if I had more data, I’d have solved this by now. How can I make bricks without clay? Even you don’t have any useful information.”

John released a tense breath he’d been holding since returning to the room. Sherlock was lamenting about the case and hurling insults. All back to normal, then.

“You don’t know that.” John slung his towel over the door of the cupboard and began the search for clothes. “I do know a thing or two. What’s the problem?”

“You can’t help.” Sherlock propped his head up on his elbow and narrowed his eyes at John. “You told me you’d never been in love.”

“That was true at the time.” John had selected a t-shirt, pulled it on, and begun reaching for trousers when he realized what he’d said. He froze where he was, hand outstretched.

The room filled up with heavy silence until John felt the weight of it settling on him like a physical force. Behind him, Sherlock seemed disinclined to make any response. Telling himself firmly that he’d braved worse danger than this, John turned to face his master.

Sherlock sat cross-legged on the rug, hands braced against his knees, looking up at John with an expression of cold neutrality.

John’s mind sorted through a dozen possible excuses, rejecting each one like an unsuitable playing card as he watched Sherlock observe him, stone-faced. He said the only thing protocol left to him. “Sir?”

“Right. Yes.” Sherlock sprang to his feet. His eyes darted around the room, observing everything except John. “I’ve work to do.” He snatched his own dressing gown off the floor and shrugged it on before gathering his notes from the night before, the photo print-out of the markings painted on the rock, and John’s copy of _Freedom through Obedience_ off the table. “Get dressed. Wear something warm. Meet me in the kitchen.” He tugged open the door and left without another look at John.  
\--

 

When Lestrade snapped awake in the darkness of his master’s room, he heard the shower running. He groped for his watch on the nightstand, and frowned at the time. He shouldn’t have been abed while Mycroft was awake. That sort of indulgence was for indolent bed slaves, not for men like Lestrade, with real work to do. Well, as real as any slave’s work could be.

Lestrade swallowed the sour taste in his mouth as he replayed Mycroft’s words from the night before. _“The Imperial Police Force lost a good thing in you.”_ Hardly. Lestrade could barely manage to keep his small section of the household running smoothly. He had no hope of unravelling the mystery of his master’s strange behaviour, and no power to protect anyone he cared about.

Lestrade kicked off the covers and climbed out of bed. Without knowing how long Mycroft had been up already, it was difficult to gauge how much time he’d have before other duties intruded, but Lestrade wanted to have _something_ to show for himself: some task completed. Once he got up and got to work, he’d shake off this damn melancholy.

A chill had crept into the room overnight, so Lestrade retrieved his shirt and slid it on as he went about turning on the lights. He circled around to the desk, where he’d left his tablet the night before. Reports would be coming in from the other personal slaves’ evening duties, so Lestrade could get a head start on sorting through those.

As Lestrade picked up his tablet, he noticed the pile of Mycroft’s papers on the desk beside it. His eyes caught on a list of numbers neatly lined up on the top document. He leaned in closer: sixteen-digit alphanumeric codes, all starting with the three-letter code for dominion of origin, in this case, CHI for Chinese Empire. Slave contract numbers. Lestrade pressed his hand flat against the desk as his eyes scanned the rest of the document: customs approval for importing slaves. Lestrade’s hand moved of its own volition to push the top sheet aside, revealing the next document down: this one a bill of sale, with contract numbers beginning with ENG, AUS, IND... Slaves from the Empire.

Lestrade’s eyes raced down the list, and felt a shameful rush of relief at seeing his own contract number was not present. These documents were surely routine: Lord Mycroft was responsible for any number of slaves who worked across his territory. They could even have been documents belonging to someone else, submitted for Mycroft’s review.

Lestrade moved to slide the top paper back onto the stack when his eye caught on a familiar number on the bill of sale: IRE-0112-358-13-2134. His own was the only contract code he’d committed to memory, but he saw others—those of the personal slaves he managed—often enough for one to look familiar. They were listed on the activity reports the personal slaves filled out; he’d only have to look at the reports to compare the numbers. He reached for his tablet.

“Gregory.”

Lestrade whirled around. Mycroft stood two paces away, wrapped in his dressing gown, skin still damp from the shower. He wore a painstakingly neutral expression. “Gregory, what is the passcode override to the personal slaves’ wing?”

Lestrade closed his mouth on his first response, which was that Mycroft must already know it, and answered, “One four six one, then twenty-four fourteen.”

“And the code to your own room?”

Lestrade swallowed hard as his mind raced around the questions, trying to see their meaning. He ventured a weak smile. “Are you planning to come for a visit?”

“No,” Mycroft said softly. “Tell me the code.”

“One two three four.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“It didn’t seem important to change it from the default.”

“Re-set the code. I want you to change it to the following: one eight nine five. Yes?”

“One eight nine five,” Lestrade repeated.

“Good, Gregory.” Mycroft turned aside, showing Lestrade his back. “You may go. Send Clarke in. And I’ll be in private meetings all morning, so there’s no need to attend after breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Lestrade grabbed his tablet and headed for the door.

“Gregory.”

“Yes, sir?” Lestrade stopped where he was, and cursed the jab of fear that struck him. Mycroft wouldn’t hurt him. Mycroft hadn’t ever hurt him. He turned around to look.

Mycroft held up the top document from the pile on his desk. “The Chinese Ambassador asked to bring in some personal slaves to help serve at the banquet. I trust I can count on you to help prepare them for the event.”

Of course. A simple explanation. “Yes, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Only when Lestrade stood at the entrance to the personal slaves’ wing, pressing his thumb against the scanner, did he notice the numeric pad for the override code and realize that he had no hope of remembering the numbers he’d seen on the bill of sale.  
\--

 

John entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson standing at the worktop, wrapping up a sandwich. Sherlock stood watching her, wearing a coat: not his normal long, black affair, but a finely tailored tweed jacket, paired with boots.

“It’s only my opinion, of course,” Mrs Hudson was saying. “But I do have a sense about these things.”

“Ah, John. At last.” Sherlock extricated himself from his sprawling lean against the cabinets.

“Would you like a cup of tea, John?” Mrs. Hudson turned a warm smile on him.

“He doesn’t have time.” Sherlock set his own empty teacup on the worktop. “We have a schedule to keep.” He swept out of the kitchen.

“He seems to be in one of his moods this morning.” Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “Came down at half eight asking me to pack a lunch, as if I didn’t have enough to do keeping all the house slaves jumping on a day where we have so many guests. Suppose he hasn’t much choice, though. Cook won’t speak to him. Hasn’t for years.”

“Yes.” John only felt grateful that Sherlock had showed no inclination to discuss this morning’s lapse. He leaned on the worktop and observed the extensive spread of lunch materials. “I can finish this, if you’ve got things to be doing.”

“You’re a sweetheart.” Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek. “I do hope he keeps you.”

“John!” Sherlock’s voice carried easily from the hallway. “Come along!”

“Never you mind, dear.” Mrs. Hudson finished wrapping up the sandwich and placed it in a neat row next to the bag of crisps and a foil packet that looked enticingly like a stack of biscuits. “Just see he remembers to take this lunch with him when he goes out, whenever that is.”

“Will do,” John promised.

“John!”

John followed the sound of Sherlock’s command, though he made no attempt to speed his pace. He found Sherlock in the narrow corridor, arms crossed over his chest. “You called, sir?”

“I’ve told you we’ve places to be this morning. You know I loathe repeating myself.” Sherlock charged off down the hallway, but stopped after five paces to wait for John to catch up.

“Where are these places, sir?”

“Outside,” Sherlock said, racing ahead once more.

“Right.” John eyed Sherlock’s unusual attire, and looked down at his own clothes: a shirt along with one of the jumpers Sherlock had provided, and a pair of jeans. He hoped he’d at least be allowed to fetch his coat. “When you said dress warmly, I thought—”

“No more thinking. It doesn’t suit you.”

John clenched his teeth and stopped walking. He couldn’t walk, count to ten, and hold his temper all at the same time; he needed to prioritize.

Sherlock stopped as well, turned back, and pointed an imperious finger at John. “Don’t. Stop being angry. Stop it.”

“I can’t just turn off my emotions like that, your Lordship,” John gritted out. “And even if I could, there’s no reason I should. What goes on in the privacy of my own head is my own to control.”

“Privacy is a luxury that’s not yours to enjoy.” Sherlock turned to stride away, then stopped, threw his head back, and dragged his hands through his tangled hair. “Fine,” he said, without looking at John. “Feel whatever you like. Just do as I say in front of our guests. Yes?”

“Fine,” John said slowly. Sherlock took off again immediately, and John picked up his pace. He followed Sherlock around the corner to emerge in the front entrance hall.

Two men John didn’t recognize stood talking near the doorway. John couldn’t guess their rank except from their fine clothes and lack of collars, so he quickly lowered his eyes and dropped back to follow the proper two steps behind Sherlock.

“Holmes, you old nutter!” One of the men moved forward to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. A quick glance gave John the impression of slicked back dark hair and a sneering face reminiscent of a weasel. “You got my note, I see.”

“Yes, of course, Wilkes.” Sherlock offered his hand, surprisingly politely.

“Holmes, this is Lord Colonel Moran.” Wilkes gestured to his companion. “Moran, Sherlock’s an old school chum of mine.”

John risked a glance up to see a solidly built man with close-cut brown hair and a proud bearing.

“Pleased to meet you,” Moran said. “Will you be walking out with us, Lord Holmes?”

“I look forward to it,” Sherlock said smoothly. “Did you not bring a slave down?”

“Your brother said he’d be happy to provide,” Wilkes said, “so I didn’t bother to bring one from the club.”

“Your favourite was already engaged, and you didn’t want to spend the time breaking in another on the road.”

“See, Moran? I told you, he had this trick he used to do at uni.” Wilkes’ smile was not quite pleasant. “Put the wind up everyone. We hated him. He could look at you and tell you your life story.”

“Oh come off it, Seb.” Moran gave a good-natured chuckle. “No one can do that.”

“He can. You’d come to breakfast in the formal hall and this chap – he would know who you’d been shagging the previous night. Got old George Hanover’s personal slave sold like a shot after you’d told us all she’d been—“

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock broke in.

“Go on, tell us how you knew how my usual slave was otherwise engaged.” Wilkes crossed his arms over his chest and looked at Sherlock.

The moment of expectant silence stretched until John glanced up at Sherlock face, which bore a worryingly neutral expression. His eyes darted to John for an instant, and then he said, “I was chatting to the housekeeper. Heard it from her.” He turned to the other man. “What about you, Colonel Moran?”

“I’m between slaves at the moment.”

“Well, I’m sure my slave could perform double duty today,” Sherlock said. He put his hand on John’s bowed head, and John had to fight the instinct to shake him off. What seemed acceptable between them when they were alone felt wrong somehow in front of strangers. “This one is late of the Imperial Army.”

“Is that so?” Moran asked. “Where did he serve?”

“Afghanistan, apparently.”

John curled his toes to avoid balling his hands into fists. He had no wish to discuss his military service, but even less did he wish to be talked about as if he were an inanimate object. Sherlock might be able to deduce his history, but he didn’t own it.

“Amazing what they let slaves get up to nowadays, isn’t it?” Wilkes offered.

A guardswoman garbed in blue rushed in from the hallway with an eye on her watch. John could see, from the corner of his eye, that she was the same woman who’d delivered a note to Sherlock yesterday. “Excuse me, Lord Sherlock.” She held out the sealed note he’d given her.

“Ah, thank you.” Sherlock tore open the letter, scanned it, and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well, tell my brother I’ll be there at once.”

The woman, looking slightly bemused, nodded and departed. Sherlock turned to Wilkes and Moran and shook his head sadly. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you after all.”

“Pity.” Wilkes didn’t quite manage to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“Yes, perhaps next time,” said Moran. “Say, Lord Holmes, why don’t you leave your man with us? A little workout will do him good. A former military man must be positively stifling in all this luxury.”

John threw an incredulous glance at Sherlock, only to be greeted with an impatient gesture. “Fine, fine. I won’t need his services for the rest of the day, so you’re welcome to him.”

“You’re too kind,” said Moran.

“Behave yourself, John.” With that, Sherlock swept off, leaving John alone with strangers.  
\--

 

Lestrade took advantage of the bustle in the staff kitchen to grab himself a cup of tea unobserved. He stood in the biting chill of the kitchen garden, letting the cup warm his hands. He only wanted to clear his head of the unease that had crept up on him like London fog. He breathed in the cold air and wished fervently for a cigarette. When he’d been a DI, he’d sorted out many an important clue on his smoke breaks. He stood until his cup grew cold as his hands, but no revelation presented itself.

Fortified with tea, Lestrade felt ready to face his master again. He headed to the library—up the back stairs and down the main corridor—and spotted Anthea trotting towards him. She held her phone in one hand, an extension of her fingers, and over her arm hung a pristine red silk robe.

“Anthea.”

“Good morning, gorgeous.” A quick glance up at him provoked a second, longer look. “Didn’t you get any sleep?”

“Do I look awful?” Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been neglecting himself these last busy weeks. He frowned, then made himself stop as he recalled how the expression made his wrinkles deepen. Such cosmetic imperfections would lessen his value to Mycroft more quickly.

“Relax,” Anthea said. “You look fine. His Lordship seemed... distracted today. Thought you might have been keeping him up.”

“No.” Lestrade didn’t volunteer any more information. He’d long ago resolved not to burden others with his failure. “Listen, do you know when those new slaves are coming in?”

Her fingers froze over her phone, and she frowned at the screen. “What new slaves?”

“The ones the Chinese Ambassador is bringing in for the banquet. If I need to arrange lodging for them and set up an orientation, I... “ He noticed Anthea press her lips together to smooth out a frown. “You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about.”

Anthea’s phone chimed, and she scrolled through a message. “Oh, those slaves. Lord Mycroft assigned an escort to bring them from the station. They’ll be here early afternoon.”

“Right, thanks.” He watched her step past him, then called out, “Anthea...”

She stopped, and threw back an inquisitive, “Hm?”

“He wouldn’t sell one of our contracts, would he?”

Anthea attention jumped from her mobile screen to his face. “He’s not selling you.”

“What about another of the household staff? One of my people?”

“Your people? They’re not your people. They’re Lord Mycroft’s.” She shifted her phone to her other hand so she could wrap her hand around Lestrade’s fingers. “We are, too.”

“Yes, of course.” He looked at her collar, at Mycroft’s initials proclaiming ownership, and felt the weight of his own collar, so dearly earned, heavy against his neck.

“Greg, you can’t worry about everyone. Don’t you have enough on your plate?” She nodded toward the foyer, where Sherlock was sweeping towards them up the grand staircase. “Bye.” She snatched her hand back and beat a hasty retreat down the hallway.

“Lestrade!” Sherlock bounded towards him.

“Yes, sir?” Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his gaze. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of movement in the foyer below: John Watson was headed outside with two men whose faces Lestrade dimly recalled from studying dossiers of the banquet guests.

“I need information,” Sherlock announced.

“Sir, excuse me, I’m sorry,” he said, fumbling his way through a breach of etiquette, “but are you sending John with those men?”

“I don’t need him right now.”

Lestrade couldn’t ask any of the half-dozen questions that sprang to mind, and he found himself saying instead, “They’re going shooting.”

“Of course they’re going shooting. Really, Lestrade, are your detective skills so dull you can’t deduce that two men in shooting jackets are going shooting?”

“I suppose that must be it, sir,” Lestrade said absently. He leaned forward to follow their progress, but the small party had already disappeared from view.

“Now, if you’re quite finished. Information. The new slaves are arriving today.”

Lestrade turned quickly back to Sherlock, but managed to keep his eyes properly averted. “You’ve already got a personal slave, sir.” He bit back any further defence of John, since venturing any opinion on the subject would overstep the bounds of his position.

“Mycroft keeps a whole stable of them,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes, but he only has one—“ _One of me._ Which was nothing special, in the grand scheme of the Empire. Lestrade forced his attention back to the question at hand. “Why do you want other slaves, sir?”

“I don’t,” Sherlock said. “I merely want to see the slaves the Ambassador is bringing in. Bit odd, isn’t it, bringing in a group of their own slaves?”

“We do have an important formal dinner tomorrow, if you’ll recall, sir.”

“Yes, but surely there are some British slaves available.” Sherlock waved a hand to indicate the whole of the estate. “We hardly need to import.”

“Slave protocol in the Chinese Empire is different to ours. Our lot can serve well enough for day-to-day use, but for anything sensitive or formal, they’re better served by some of their own.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “It’s not like Mycroft to be so thoughtful about his fellow diplomats’ comforts.”

“It’s safer this way, sir,” Lestrade said tightly. “It matters to Lord Mycroft that his slaves be treated well. No slave wants to be blamed for inadvertently causing offense to a foreign diplomat. When the Ambassador suggested it, Lord Mycroft was happy to agree. He wouldn’t— Hang on.” Something about Sherlock too-attentive expression stopped Lestrade. “You’re doing that thing, aren’t you? Contradicting me, winding me up so I’ll give you answers.”

“Yes, very good. You’ve caught me,” Sherlock said impatiently. He grabbed Lestrade’s shoulders. “Now this is important, Lestrade. When did the Ambassador make his request?”  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

“His name is Toby,” said the lanky, white-bearded man. “The rest of them serve just fine, but he’s my favourite.”

John crouched in the yard outside the kennel and scratched behind the ears of the brown and white spaniel, whose tail wagged frantically. “Hullo, boy.”

“We best get on,” said the man. He’d introduced himself as Sherman, though whether that was his given name or his surname, John couldn’t say. “The Lords don’t appreciate dawdling, especially them what comes from town.”

“Right.” John hoisted the pack of supplies, including the lunch Mrs. Hudson had been making—Sherlock could bloody well find his own—and trooped after Toby and his handler.

As they crossed the yard, John’s eye caught on yellow characters sprayed on the wall of the kennel. He stopped and stared. Lines arranged in strange, precise patterns filled the whole wall.

John called ahead to Sherman, “Has this been here long?”

“Just since last night. Happens once in a while. I think it might be the cook’s eldest son. Rascal of a boy. But still, I wouldn’t want him to get in trouble with the masters, so I don’t complain. I’ll have it washed off before anyone important sees it.”

“Actually, do you mind not? I just...” John fumbled for an explanation that could convince his new acquaintance. “It’s Lord Sherlock, you see. He has an interest in graffiti. I think it might cheer him up to see it. And he’s not at all bothered by destruction of property, so he won’t be angry.”

“Always was a queer one, our Lord Sherlock.”

John smiled at the exasperated affection in the man’s tone. “Yes. I just... I thought it might be nice to be able to point out something that would interest him.”

“Get his mind off of you for a minute, eh lad?” The corner of Sherman’s mouth quirked in what might have been a smile. “Well, it’s no harm leaving it until tomorrow. I’ve plenty to do without cleaning off paint. Just mind let me know when you’ve done what you need to, so I can get rid of it before the rest of the guests show up.”

“Right. Thanks.”

They trooped around the outside of the gardens to meet the two Lords at the gate that marked the boundary between the manicured grounds around the house and the open fields and woods that made up the rest of the estate. One of the men, Wilkes, John thought, saw them coming and waved impatiently. The two figures started off down the path, leaving their social inferiors to follow.

“He’s always in a hurry out here, is Lord Wilkes,” Sherman said. “Probably because he knows it’ll take him all day to shoot half as many birds as Cook’ll want. Could barely hit an elephant if it were standing still, that one.”

“I suppose shooting’s not that useful a skill for a city Lord.”

“Mm. You’d be surprised what they get up to for fun.” Sherman kept his eyes on the path ahead of them. “You been shooting before?”

“Not like this, no.”

“Right. Well, just follow behind. All you’ve to do is reload for ‘em, help if the guns jam, hold the extra gun the Colonel’s got, pass it to him if he asks. Toby will retrieve the birds, and I’ll carry the game bag. And you keep your mouth shut unless they talk to you direct.”

Toby trotted ahead of the group, nose to the ground, but John hung back, taking in the details of the terrain he hadn’t had the leisure to notice the previous night whilst dashing about with Sherlock. The woods looked different in the thin morning sunlight: almost pretty. They skirted the lake where Sherlock had exchanged fire with an unknown gunman, and passed quite near the spot where John had tackled Sherlock to the ground.

The little patch of earth bore at least two distinct sets of footprints that hadn’t been there last night: Lord Mycroft’s security taking a belated interest, most likely. John paused to look, but he couldn’t see any trace of where he’d lain on top of Sherlock, adrenaline thrumming through his veins as he protected his charge. When he closed his eyes, he could feel his body pressed to Sherlock’s.

“You, slave!”

John started and looked up to see Lord Colonel Moran looking back at him from a little ways up the path.

“John, is it?” Moran asked.

“Yes, sir.” John glanced quickly up the path to see Sherman scouting ahead with the dog, and Wilkes with his mobile pressed to one ear, holding his gun at an awkward angle.

“No, the reception’s bloody awful.” Wilkes was practically shouting. “ _Which_ papers didn’t get signed?”

At Moran’s expectant look, John hurried to catch up, and fell into step just behind him.

“You’d best hold onto this.” Moran handed him one of the shotguns tucked under his arm. “Be at the ready once the shooting starts.”

“Yes, sir.”

They walked in relative silence for a bit. John would have preferred to walk by himself, rather than spending each step in anticipation of another order. Still, he followed Moran obediently, telling himself that he should make the most of this outing: he could be kneeling in the freezing rain, or chained in a torture chamber instead of enjoying a brisk walk on a fine afternoon. He couldn’t help the fleeting thought that he’d sooner have gone with Sherlock on whatever mad errands he’d come up with, wherever that would have taken him.

“Did Lord Sherlock have it right?”Moran asked, once they’d left the lake behind. “You served in Afghanistan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hm. I get the impression your master rarely gets his facts wrong. What did you do there? My unit had a few slaves who made themselves fairly useful from time to time.”

“You served in Afghanistan as well, sir?” John asked, then dropped his eyes back to the path in front of him. He still wasn’t sure what kind of conversation was permitted; his own master wasn’t the best model for encouraging proper behaviour.

“Yes. Are you surprised? Not all the officers of the nobility serve just for show.” Moran patted his rifle. “Some of us are eager to do our part defending the honour of the Empire.”

“Yes, sir,” John said quickly.

They came out of the woods onto a path that wended its way through an open field. Ahead of them, Wilkes leaned his gun against a stump and shouted into his phone, “Then check the paperwork again. That security’s impenetrable!”

“So, what were you?” Moran asked. “Wait, let me guess. A mechanic.”

“No, sir.”

“Requisitions, I bet.” Moran pointed a finger at John. “You’ve got a trustworthy face. That goes a long way.”

“No, sir.”

At the far edge of the field, Toby set to barking, and dashed at a clump of tall grass. “At ‘em, Toby,” Sherman shouted, and then the birds broke from cover.

Wings beat the air frantically. Wilkes dropped his phone and grabbed for his shotgun; Moran had already raised his. Two shots sounded, and one bird fell. Toby barked madly. Both men still had their guns raised, tracking the fleeing birds. Moran squeezed off his second shot, and another bird dropped. Wilkes’ shot went astray.

Moran brought his gun down. John put his hand out for it and smoothly passed him the spare. As Moran shot again, John broke the shotgun, popped out the shells, and reloaded. He looked up in time to see Moran’s next shot hit: a fourth bird tumbled out of the sky. As smoothly as a cog in a machine, John took back the second gun and passed over the first again, but no birds were left aloft.

“Well.” Moran lowered his weapon, turned to John, and regarded him with undisguised interest. “You are a handy one.”

John dropped his eyes as he remembered he wasn’t sharing a moment of celebration with a comrade, but humbly accepting the praise of a Lord.

“Well done, sirs! Well done, Toby.” Sherman knelt to take a bird from the dog’s mouth. The dog dashed off again while Sherman shoved the pheasant into a burlap sack.

“This gun’s defective!” Wilkes shouted. “Slave, come here and get it working!”

John hustled over to Wilkes and accepted the proffered weapon. Wilkes snatched up his mobile from the ground and walked toward the crest of the nearby hill, shouting again. “No, it’s just some shooting. I’m in the bloody _country_ , I told you!”

“Never away from the office for a minute. Poor Seb.” Moran appeared beside John.

John wasn’t sure what to say to that. Adrenaline from those few thrilling moments of action still heated his blood. He made himself sit on the nearby tree stump, and examined the gun Lord Wilkes had handed over.

“What’s your opinion, John?” Moran asked. “Is it broken?”

John removed the spent cartridges, loaded two more, and snapped the gun closed. Without a moment’s hesitation, he brought the gun to his shoulder, took aim at a tree at the edge of the field, exhaled slowly, and fired. He sighted and fired again. A clump of bark went flying at the juncture of the branch where John had aimed, then another, in the same spot.

Toby set to barking again, and Sherman and Wilkes both turned to look. “It’s fixed, sir,” John said, with a wave at Wilkes. He glanced up at Moran to see an amused smile.

“Not requisitions, then,” Moran said. “And not a mechanic.”

“No, sir.”

“It’s nice to see a slave who can handle himself.” Moran cradled his rifle against his chest. “Most personal slaves curl up and cower when conditions gets rough. Part of why Her Majesty’s Army always needs a new supply. I don’t imagine you’d curl up and cry if the enemy came at you with a weapon.”

“No, sir.” John suppressed a smile as he reloaded Wilkes’ gun.

“I’m amazed the Army let you go.”

“I was invalided, sir.” John kept his eyes on the ground, not wanting to see Moran’s reaction.

“Pity. You look healthy enough to me.” Moran took a step closer. His shadow fell over the gun in John’s hands. “Do you miss it? I can’t imagine there’s much call for your skills on an estate like this.”

“I suppose not, sir.” John thought of the Army slaves he’d known. Yes, many had held menial positions, but some had been valued members of the regiment: serving as aides du camp to important officers, keeping the arms and armour in fighting trim, even serving in the medical corps.

“How long ago did you leave the front?”

“Months, sir.”

“Hell. You must still have mates in the fighting, then.”

“Probably, sir.” People he’d thought of as mates, certainly. Men who’d saved his life in battle, whose guts he’d stitched back together. He’d no idea what the Commander had told his unit after he’d been shipped off. There was a chance his old friends simply thought he’d been invalided home, and that sometimes they sat around in the cold, starry mountain nights and cheerfully cursed that lucky prat Captain Watson, who’d got well out of it.

“You miss it,” Moran said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’d be a fool to miss a war, sir.”

“Not such a fool.” Moran reached for Wilkes’ gun, and brushed his fingers against John as he took it. “Come on, let’s get Seb off his phone and shooting again. We still need a few more birds for tomorrow’s dinner.”  
\--

 

“I’ve got room assignments sorted.” Lestrade passed a folder across the paper-strewn desk to Sally. “We’ll need to set up an orientation to the house in the morning, then a review of the banquet just before table setting.”

“Is that all?” Sally set the folder next to her own stack of papers and leaned her chair back. There was barely room to do so in the confines of Lestrade’s cramped office, tucked away just off the personal slaves’ lounge. “I know it’s meant to be less work for us, having the Ambassador bring his own lot in, but it doesn’t seem like it. Are they just serving at table?”

“Ah.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. The first seeds of a headache were setting down roots at the base of his skull. “It’s more than that. Apparently the Ambassador also brought entertainers.”

“Entertainers?” Sally crossed her arms over her chest.

“Dancers, acrobats, and the like.” Lestrade took up his tablet and scrolled through the list. “This one’s listed as an erotic contortionist.”

“Not our usual formal dinner, then?”

“Apparently not. I gather there’s to be some after-dinner entertainment,” Lestrade said. He bit back his opinion on such entertainments; if Lord Mycroft thought it was appropriate, Lestrade shouldn’t say otherwise. “The main thing is that they know how to find their way around well enough to perform their duties and not get into trouble. Since you’re so talented at helping new people get situated, I thought—“

“You’re a shameless flatterer.”

“Well, you did help me settle in,” Lestrade pointed out.

“It was that or watch you become a public relations nightmare.” Sally expressed her frustration in a dramatic exhale, but said, “Yes, alright. Let me see the duty roster, and I’ll figure out who can spare the time today to babysit.”

“You’re a treasure.” Lestrade handed her the day’s printed schedule.

“Never forget it.” She spread out the roster and several other papers in front of her, and began marking them up with ruthless abandon.

Lestrade pushed a stack of file folders back and forth across the narrow empty space on his side of the desk, watching the words and figures blur in his vision. He tried to picture the list of numbers he’d read on Mycroft’s paperwork that morning, but the task was absolutely hopeless. “Sally,” he said. “You’ve been here longer than me. How often has Lord Mycroft sold personal slaves?”

“What have you heard?” Sally raised her eyes. Her fingers tightened on the papers she held until the edges crumpled.

“It’s nothing. Nothing to worry anyone else about, not yet.” Lestrade straightened the already-straight stack of files in front of him. “Just... has he done?”

“Once in a while,” Sally said carefully. “Someone who wasn’t happy here, or caused trouble. More often he’ll shift slaves around to a different position. Don’t know many who were sold outright. Why are you asking?”

“It’s nothing to be concerned about,” Lestrade said quickly. He picked up the nearest file—reports on a recent visit from Brazilian diplomats—and began shuffling through it. “I wanted to know how it would work. If he did.”

Sally reached forward to snatch the file from Lestrade’s hands. “He’s not going to sell you.”

“Not right now, at least.” He’d have to be redistributed someday, he knew. The Lord of Westminster and points north couldn’t be seen with a personal slave as far past his prime as Lestrade was beginning to be.

“Not ever.” Sally settled back in her chair again and narrowed her eyes at him. “Not unless you demanded it, and even then I think you’d have a rough time convincing him.”

“Hey.” Anthea appeared in the doorway, holding the door open with her shoulder and keeping one foot outside. “Lestrade.” She beckoned forcefully with the hand not clutching her phone.

“Duty calls.” With a mock salute to Sally, he stood and edge around the desk to get to the door. “So, boss, what’s on the schedule for this afternoon?”

As soon as he came close enough, Anthea wrapped her fingers around his wrist and tugged. “Let’s move.”

Before she dragged him out of the room, he called back to Sally, “Send a copy of that to Mrs. Hudson when you’re done, would you?” He glimpsed Sally’s acknowledging wave, and then he was being hustled across the lounge and out into the corridor. “I can walk on my own,” he told Anthea.

“You have to fix him.” Her thumb jabbed forcefully at her phone’s keypad, but she kept up her rapid walk.

“What? Fix who? Has Jim mixed up the house slaves’ network passwords again?”

“When I told you he was distracted this morning, I didn’t know how bad it was.”

All sense of playfulness fled when Lestrade realized who she meant. “How bad is it?”

“In a meeting with the Imperial Registry, he said the main exporter of slaves in the Chinese Empire was Zhejiang Province, not Jiangsu Province.”

“Yes?”

“It took him _six seconds_ to notice the mistake.”

“So, bad then.”

“Yes, as I said. I re-scheduled his tea with Lady Price, but he must be on a call with the Home Secretary at half four. He’s in the study.” Anthea stopped outside the door of Mycroft’s library, slipped her phone into her pocket, and looked directly at him. “Lestrade. Fix him.” She tugged open the door, propelled him inside with a push between his shoulder blades, and closed the door behind him.

The small library was too quiet without the presence of its master. Afternoon sunlight filtered through the stained glass, throwing coloured patterns against Lestrade as he crossed to the room. The study door stood ajar. Lestrade pushed it open and slipped through.

Here, too, sunlight streamed in past the open curtains. The study held one of Mycroft’s desks, neatly stacked with paperwork, and a massive oak conference table, where Lestrade had often knelt at his master’s side, providing a living example of the power Lord Mycroft held.

At the head of the table sat Mycroft, with his head in his hands. He’d stripped off his jacket, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and vest. At his elbow stood a snifter with a few fingers of brandy. Without raising his head, Mycroft said, “I’ll be along in a moment. Please apologize to Lady Price for the delay.”

“Lady Price isn’t coming.”

Mycroft bolted upright as if pulled by invisible strings. His chair scraped noisily against the wooden floor, and then he was on his feet, hands clenched at his sides. “Gregory.”

The fact that Mycroft hadn’t noticed the difference between Anthea’s approach and Lestrade’s intensified Lestrade’s concern. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Mycroft replied. The surprise that had first greeted Lestrade had melted away; Lestrade could see Mycroft’s defences being quickly rebuilt even as he watched. “I was contemplating a business matter.”

“I can’t make you tell me anything, my Lord.” Lestrade clasped his hands behind his back and lowered his eyes, giving every reminder he could of his rank.

Mycroft snatched his glass from the table and threw back a generous swallow. “You needn’t...” he began, then raised his glass again, finishing the rest.

Lestrade spotted the half-full decanter on the sideboard by the window. He walked the length of the room, selected a glass from the sideboard, and poured himself a measure of brandy. He turned back to his master and refreshed his drink before returning the decanter. Lestrade raised his glass. “What shall we toast to?”

“Hubris.” Mycroft clinked his glass against Lestrade’s before downing a more temperate swallow of his very expensive brandy. He turned half away from Lestrade, one hand clutching his glass, the other gripping the back of his chair.

Lestrade moved closer, as close as he could without forcing contact. “Tell me what’s happened. Please.”

“It’s not for me to burden you with such things.”

“Who, then?” Lestrade gestured with his glass to the empty room.

“I’ll be alright in a moment. Leave me.”

“My place is here, sir.” He edged closer, pressing up against Mycroft’s back.

“Stubborn,” Mycroft muttered. After a moment, though, he leaned some of his weight back against Lestrade’s chest. “You know one of my duties is to act as Commander in Chief of the Second Imperial Regiment.”

“Yes.” If Lestrade hadn’t noted it before, he remembered John speaking of it.

“When I was small, I used to watch my father move markers around his map table. Before I even knew what the figures represented, he would allow me to assist him. I’ve always found it very easy to process reports from my field commanders, and to make decisions that may risk the lives of many men.”

Lestrade ignored the image that sprung to mind of a young Mycroft idly moving tokens that translated to troop movements in the western colonies, and said instead, “That’s war, sir. Such decisions must be made on the battlefield.”

Mycroft turned, separating himself from Lestrade and holding his glass between them like a shield. “Any battlefield, Gregory?”

Lestrade looked down at the drink in his hand. He swirled the rich liquid around the glass, admiring the way it changed in the sunlight. He said, “I once had an informant, skinny, ginger bloke from Hackney. Just a kid, really. He kept me up to date on the movements of a group of young toughs who were selling drugs to young Lords and Ladies and extorting money from their families.”

Mycroft, exercising his apparent mind-reading abilities, cut right to the end of Lestrade’s story. “What happened to your informant?”

“They killed him. Slit his throat when they realized he’d turned on them. Dumped his body out back of the flat of the last family they worked over.” Lestrade hadn’t even seen the body. He’d seen photos, though. Read the report. Kept a copy on his desk for months. “We caught them, right after.”

“Was it worth it?”

“No,” Lestrade said. He took a sip of his drink, but didn’t taste it at all before he swallowed it down. “I don’t know. They would have killed more people.”

“But you didn’t know those people who might have been killed. You knew that boy.”

“All the more reason I shouldn’t have put him in danger.” Lestrade tried to recall the boy’s face, but could remember only the photo of the corpse. “I did what I thought was best at the time.”

“And I trust you always will.” Mycroft sank into his chair and settled his glass on the table. Curled over his drink, he seemed oddly small.

Lestrade set his own glass down next to Mycroft’s. “If there’s something I can do, only say it.”

Mycroft turned to settle his arms around Lestrade’s waist and bury his face in the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt. “I suppose it’s not fair to ask you to tell me I’m not a monster.”

“You’re not a monster, Mycroft,” Lestrade said softly.

“Yes, but you must say so.”

Lestrade considered that pronouncement in silence. He thought of the monsters he’d known in his time at the Yard—those men who’d killed that boy from Hackney—and those he’d met since becoming a slave. He compared them in his mind to what he knew of Mycroft the Lord, Mycroft the master, Mycroft the man. He’d always treated Lestrade as a human being, even when Lestrade had gone through a phrase of not returning the favour. Even then, Mycroft had unfailingly maintained his integrity.

Lestrade lowered himself to one knee, to put himself on a level with his master. He asked, “Do you consider me a moral man?”

“Once of the most moral men I’ve ever had the pleasure to know.”

“A moral man wouldn’t willingly take a monster to bed. If you were a monster, I wouldn’t have given you the best of me.”

“Is this the best of you, Gregory?” Mycroft’s eyes darted over Lestrade’s face, as if searching for clues.

“Damn right it is. And if you have complaints, I can spend tonight in my own quarters.” He pushed himself to his feet.

Mycroft stood quickly. “I only meant to clarify. It’s wise for a man to know the exact value of what he holds.” He gently took Lestrade’s face in his hands and held him in place for a reverent kiss.

Lestrade settled his arms around Mycroft’s waist, pleased to see his master standing strong again. He felt as elated as he had when Mycroft had been waltzing him around the ballroom, only days before: the push and pull of their words against each other matching, flowing, resolving into a fluid dance. Lestrade leaned forward into the kiss, sure that he’d be met with equal enthusiasm, but Mycroft pulled back sharply. He held Lestrade at arm’s length.

“The time. What’s the time?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade blinked at him for a second too long, then glanced around the room until his eyes landed on the clock above the desk. “Just gone four,” he reported.

Mycroft nodded curtly, took a step back, and brushed his hands down the front of his waistcoat.

“Right.” Lestrade allowed himself one deep breath to stem his disappointment before moving on. “I understand you’ve a call to make.”

“Yes. Can’t keep the Home Secretary waiting.” Mycroft reached for his jacket, but Lestrade darted in.

“Let me.” Lestrade held up Mycroft’s jacket while he slid into it, and when he turned around again, Mycroft had resumed the mantle of authority along with the jacket.

Mycroft was already reaching for the stack of papers he’d discarded before Lestrade had arrived. “Will you check on our early guests?” he asked as he sorted through his files. “Lord Wilkes and the Colonel. We’re to provide personal slaves for them—find out what they want, won’t you?”

“Yes, alright.” Lestrade headed for the door.

“Gregory.”

Lestrade turned at the door and looked back.

Mycroft stood, a dark outline against the sunny windows, watching Lestrade intently. “Carry on,” he said, and delved back into his work.  
\--

 

Just as John’s leg was starting to stiffen up from all the tromping around the fields, Wilkes called over to Moran, “If that isn’t enough bloody birds, tell the help to find their own.”

“Alright, Seb.” Moran’s throaty chuckle echoed over the field. “We’ll head in.”

The group had made a rough loop over the course of the early afternoon, so the walk back onto the estate proper wasn’t overly long. Moran and Wilkes headed straight to the front door of the house, showing a complete lack of consideration for the mud they’d be tracking all over the expensive rugs.

“Come on,” Sherman called to John, inclining his head toward the garden path. “We’ll go around back, drop off the game bag.”

“The guns?” John held up the two weapons he’d carried back from the fields.

“Lord Moran’s.” Sherman frowned. “He doesn’t like to put ‘em in the gun room with the rest. You’ll need to return them to his quarters straight away. Wouldn’t do to be accused of plotting mischief with them.”

John followed Sherman through the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson greeted them with a stern look. “Wipe your shoes off before you come in, or Cook’ll be out for your blood,” she admonished. “Dr. Watson! You can’t bring a weapon in here!”

“I’m just returning them, Mrs. Hudson.”

“I don’t care if you’re having them for tea,” Mrs. Hudson said, hands on her hips. “A slave shouldn’t be seen with them.”

“Right,” he said quickly. “Can I just--? I need to leave a note for Sherlock.”

“Quickly, quickly.”

John grabbed a pen and a scrap of paper from the worktop and scribbled a quick note: _Writing on kennel outbuilding, may match symbols from woods._ “Can you make sure Sherlock sees this, please?”

“He usually comes in for a spot of tea in the afternoon. Weren’t you with him just now?”

“He’s loaned me out for the day, it seems.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hudson’s expression tightened, and John thought he detected a note of disapproval in her tone. “Did he, then?”

“Guess he’s got bored of me.”

“I very much doubt that’s the case. You be careful, Dr. Watson.”

“Will do.” John picked up the guns again and made his way through the warren of narrow stairways and corridors to the guest wing.

The blue-uniformed guard at the hallway entrance frowned at him. “What’s this?” she asked.

“Returning Lord Colonel Moran’s weapons,” John said, with his eyes fixed on the floor. He couldn’t account for the nervousness that coursed through him under the guard’s scrutiny. He’d done nothing wrong, nothing he hadn’t been ordered to do.

“You’re Lord Sherlock’s slave.” The guard touched a finger to the initialled tag on John’s collar.

John managed to avoid flinching away from the casual touch. He nodded, instead.

“Why’ve you got Lord Moran’s guns, then?”

“I’m serving Lord Moran for the day.”

“Oh,” the guard said on a long exhale. “Well. He’s in the orange room. It’s third on your left. Good luck.”

“Right.” He’d no idea how to interpret that reaction, so he walked on to the orange room. John shifted his grip on the guns so he could knock.

The door opened almost immediately to reveal a smiling Moran, stripped of his jacket and still a bit windblown from their day out of doors. “Ah, John. Come in, come in.”

John stepped into the opulence of the guest room, which seemed foreign after the homey disorder of Sherlock’s suite. The place had a tiger-skin rug rolled out in front of a crackling fire, with two massive chairs that looked to be hewn of some sort of horn or tusk. Moran’s luggage was stacked neatly in the corner next to the book shelf, which held a paltry assortment of dusty-looking tomes. A gun rack—who needed a room with a gun rack?—stood beside the dresser. “I’ve just come to return your guns, sir.”

“Of course.” Moran gestured him in, and closed the door. “Did you enjoy today’s outing?”

“Yes, sir,” John said. He had genuinely enjoyed himself; he hadn’t had to give a single lecture on gun safety all day, and no one had needed to be tackled out of the way of a bullet. John propped one gun against the wall, the better to settle the other on the stand.

“Does Lord Sherlock not take you out much?”

“Out? Not off the estate, no.” John spent half his time getting dragged into trouble by his master, and the other half trying to climb out of it. There hadn’t been much time to reflect in the past weeks, but he hadn’t felt this useful—this alive—since Afghanistan. John rested the other gun in its place on the rack. “But he keeps me fairly busy, sir.”

“Then I appreciate his making time to share.” Moran settled into one of the massive horn chairs. “I’ll need to get changed for dinner, now.” He extended one leg, propping his heel against the floor.

John hesitated for a moment, thinking through his basic training, before classifying this as a request he couldn’t reasonably refuse. He knelt before the chair and began unlacing Moran’s boot.

“It’s strange,” Moran said. “Everyone who knows the Holmes family is curious about this new acquisition of Lord Sherlock’s, and he has yet to take you out in public. If I had a personal slave as impressive as you, I’d show him off at every opportunity.”

John wasn’t sure if that counted as a compliment, so he said nothing. He set the first boot aside, and began on the other.

“Of course, perhaps it takes someone who understands a military nature to truly appreciate your appeal.”

John chanced a look up to see Moran staring down at him. From this angle, he appeared a formidable figure, a much larger man than he’d seemed when they were out in the fields, both armed. Moran spread his legs and offered an expectant smile.

Of course. Stupid, stupid Watson. He knew masters shared their slaves. Hell, Lord Mycroft kept a whole stable of slaves for use by his guests. John had let himself grown complacent, had made the mistake of thinking that Sherlock considered him something other than a piece of property he could lend out to friends as he pleased.

John grabbed the pair of boots and stood. “I’ll take these to be cleaned.” He turned to go, but Moran was on his feet immediately, his hand curled around John’s bicep.

"Have a drink," said Moran. "Your Lord Sherlock doesn't seem like much of a drinker. But I bet you like to indulge from time to time. Can't survive the service not knowing how to drink. Sit down."

"I'd rather not, sir."

"Well, I'd rather you did. So what's it to be?"

John’s thumping heart shaped his rising apprehension into a solid calm. “Alright, sir.” He lowered his eyes, slowly, and made himself relax.

As soon as Moran turned to the sideboard, John moved.

He bolted for the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of movement; Moran had anticipated the move. Firm hands grasped John’s arm, and used his own momentum to swing him towards the wall.

John caught himself, managing only to get the wind knocked out of him rather than break his nose. He immediately shoved back from the wall. His move took him straight back into Moran’s grasp, but a quick sweep with his good leg had Moran falling. He dragged John down with him.

John tried to keep his legs under him, knowing that with Moran’s superior weight, he had no hope of breaking free once he was pinned. Moran caged him with arms and legs, crushing John against the floor—the loathsome weight of him was nothing like Sherlock, holding him down against the rug this morning to take his pleasure. John had wanted that, he had, whereas this helplessness filled him with a bitter rage that had him screaming his frustration to the ground.

“Good, John. Let it out. Is that what Lord Sherlock enjoys? Fantasizing about overpowering you?” Moran easily quelled the struggle John attempted. “How much do you make him work for it before you roll over and spread your legs? Do you like it when he holds you down?”

John snapped his head back, and was rewarded with a welcoming crack and a sharp gasp from Moran. He threw all his weight to the side with one desperate push. Moran’s grip faltered, and John took full advantage. He kicked back hard, earning a pained yelp from his captor, then turned to shove Moran off him.

In an instant, John was on his feet. He didn’t look back, but ran immediately for the door again. This time he reached his goal. He tore open the door and ran blindly into the corridor.

His progress was arrested almost immediately when he ran into a man who grabbed hold of him. John shoved him off, but the man caught his wrist again. “John!”

Lestrade. It was Lestrade. The man looked John over, taking in his dishevelled state, his wild breathing. He pushed John behind him.

Moran came thundering out. Blood leaked from a split lip and smeared across his bared teeth. He charged up the corridor, but Lestrade stood his ground. Moran halted reluctantly and settled into a fighting stance, seeming to take up half the corridor. He pointed at John. “That mongrel attacked me.”

Lestrade kept a firm hold on John’s wrist and bowed his head. “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir. He’s not yet completed his training.”

“Give him to me. I’ll teach him discipline.” Moran took a step forward, and Lestrade retreated a step, pushing John with him.

“I’m sorry, sir. My master’s ordered me to collect this slave. I’ll ensure he’s properly looked after until an understanding is reached.”

Moran’s eyes caught against Lestrade’s collar. “You’re Lord Mycroft’s man.”

“Yes, sir. I’m certain he’d make time to speak with you about this matter.” Lestrade glanced over his shoulder, past John, to the guard who’d come running down the corridor at the commotion. “Miss, could you please escort Lord Moran to see Lord Mycroft? He should be in the small library.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Colonel Moran, is everything alright?”

“It will be. I’ll get changed, then you can take me to see Lord Mycroft.” He turned to Lestrade, whose grip on John tightened. “And you, slave. Make sure this one’s properly restrained. I wouldn’t want any other free man to come to harm because Lord Sherlock can’t keep his animals in line.”  
\--

 

Lestrade kept his hand firmly locked around John’s wrist until they’d reached the relative safety of the personal slaves’ wing and the door had closed behind him. Then he released John and stood still, letting his body work itself out of the panic of seeing John burst out of that room like a demon hound was after him.

At last, he turned to face John, who had his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes fixed downwards. He had no obvious injuries, but his usual calm demeanour had definitely been ruffled. “Are you alright?” Lestrade asked.

“I’m fine,” John said to the floor.

“Are you injured?”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Right.” Lestrade nodded. John didn’t seem to be hiding any injuries, and Moran had been so furious that Lestrade could well believe he’d got no part of what he wanted. On to the next greatest concern, then. “Did you hurt Moran?”

“No, I’m sure his Lordship is alright.” John’s jaw clenched tight. “I didn’t even hit him, just shoved him off me.”

“He was bleeding, John.”

“Not as much as he could have been,” John said grimly.

“Don’t joke about that.” Lestrade shouldn’t have forgotten that John was a soldier as well as a doctor. If John had tried to fight instead of running, if Lestrade had arrived five minutes later, the consequences they all faced could have been much worse. “What were you thinking of?”

“Oh, you think I just should have submitted to him?” John asked. “Rolled over like a good little dog?”

“No! Practice the magic words, John: ‘I am not permitted.’ Or ‘My Master forbids me.’ Only your Master can protect you. You can’t protect yourself.”

“The hell I can’t!” John clenched his fists at his sides, and Lestrade could feel again all the anger and defiance that had nearly drowned him in his first months as a slave.

“I mean you’re not allowed,” Lestrade explained. “Moran could have you publicly flogged. He could demand that Sherlock give you to him for a night as compensation for his injury. He could petition to have Lord Sherlock stripped of the right to hold service contracts, because he’s harbouring a violent slave.”

“He could do that?”

“He could try. The balance of power wouldn’t be in his favour, but it would do Lord Sherlock’s reputation no good to be involved in a dispute like that.”

“It’d be easier just to give me up,” John said, with his eyes on the floor again.

“No.” Lestrade shook his head. “Lord Sherlock wouldn’t let anything happen to you. It’s obvious he cares for you.”

“Is it?” John stretched his hand out—the left one—and looked down at it.

Lestrade could see doubt tearing at the edges of John’s esteem, could feel the echoes of it. “It is,” he said. “I’ve seen what he’ll do when pressed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” John asked.

“Never mind.” Lestrade started down the hallway. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

“Why must you be so mysterious?” John caught him up right away. “If it’s something about Sherlock, don’t I have a right to know?”

“It’s not— ” Lestrade stopped and scrubbed a hand across his face. Perhaps he didn’t owe anyone an account of his past, but John was a friend, the first person to earn that title in time untold. If Lestrade knew something that might help John understand his eccentric master, he could no longer justify hiding it, no matter how much it might damage John’s estimation of him. “I used to be a copper,” he blurted.

John frowned at him.

“A Detective Inspector, in fact.” It had been years—perhaps since the trial—since Lestrade had spoken his old title. The words felt easy, good to say.

“You worked with Sherlock.”

“He consulted for the police, under a pseudonym.” At John’s incredulous look, Lestrade said. “We could hardly have stopped him. You know how he is.”

“Yes.” John shook his head. “God help me, I do.”

“I made a mistake, a big one, on a case we were working together. A witness got hurt.” Lestrade closed his eyes and saw the pale, pale skin of the girl’s face, felt the fading pulse under his fingertips.

John just watched, waiting for him to continue.

“Lord Sherlock enlisted Mycroft’s help to keep me from getting shipped off to a life of hard labour in the Australian colony.”

“Sherlock got Lord Mycroft’s help?” John said slowly, as if trying out the words.

“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it? So that’s what you should know.” Lestrade shoved his hands in his pockets. “He is capable of mercy, as much as he shams at not caring about anyone.”

“Oh.”John stood very still, staring off into middle distance.

“Right.” Lestrade lead them the last few steps to John’s door and scanned his thumb to open it. He swept his hand toward the room. John stepped inside. “Now, my story is that I’m using my override to lock you in.”

“Are you?” John asked.

“Don’t be daft. Stay put. I’ll be back as soon as I have news.”  
\--

 

John stood in the dark room for several minutes, turning Lestrade’s words over in his mind. A copper. John wondered what mistake he could have made to end up a slave in Lord Mycroft’s house. And that Sherlock had helped Lestrade seemed preposterous. John couldn’t imagine Sherlock lifting a finger for anyone unless it benefited him directly. Then again, John had seen him hold open a door for Mrs. Hudson once, so perhaps he did have the potential Lestrade claimed for him.

John flipped on the room’s sole lamp. The scene it illuminated was a far cry from the barracks-neat haven it had been when John had first arrived. Sherlock had left so many of his belongings here that the room was beginning to resemble a colony of Sherlock’s personal Empire, with John the subjugated head of state.

John grabbed the red silk robe from where it had been tossed in last night’s exertions, and headed to the shower for the second time that day. He turned the water on as hot as he could stand. He braced his hands against the wall and let the spray pound against his skin until every physical trace of the day had been washed away. Even Sherlock wouldn’t be able to read what had happened, unless, John conceded, he deduced it from the invisible evidence John gave away without knowing, the way he gave away everything else.

Far too soon, the ancient pipes began to rattle, and the water turned cold. John shut off the shower. He wanted to stand still until his mind stopped chasing itself in circles, but his body was well trained to carry him through the shock and fatigue of combat, so today’s events provided no challenge; it dried John off, carried him back to his room, and redressed him without any conscious input from John himself.

He found himself sitting on the bed, registering distant twinges of pain from the lingering bruising on his arse. His punishment. Now he’d be in for more of that, or perhaps something worse. When John closed his eyes, he could hear Sherlock’s whisper in his ear, _” Your behaviour is far from proper, wouldn’t you say, John?”_

Moran had been right: John had given in so easily to Sherlock: accepting his collar, last night’s punishment, this morning’s attention, and _enjoying_ it.

Still, nothing Sherlock had ever said or done had set John’s skin crawling, not the way Moran’s casual proposition had done. But that was Sherlock’s work too, wasn’t it? Apparently Moran’s attention was just one more thing Sherlock expected John to accept.

Last night, John would have said that Sherlock had a fierce jealous streak. He’d certainly had plenty to say when he saw that Mycroft had struck John. But perhaps that was a matter of sibling rivalry, or resentment that Mycroft hadn’t asked permission. Perhaps if Sherlock had decided to offer, he would have been content to watch Mycroft beat John bloody.

John plucked at the jumper he’d thrown on in his half-conscious state: a soft heather-coloured v-neck, one of the lot Sherlock had provided, and a pair of jeans that fit like they’d been tailored. He stood and stripped it all off. He touched his fingers to the back of his collar; it was held on by a simple clasp, something he could easily remove. He ran his thumb over the tag at the front of the collar, the letters that showed who he was as surely as his dog tags had. He kicked aside the clothes he’d been wearing and dressed instead in the drab, standard-issue trousers and shirt Sherlock hated.

John threw himself onto the bed. The pillow smelled of Sherlock; he always hogged it during the night.

John stood up. He couldn’t go looking for Sherlock; if he were seen, Lestrade would undoubtedly be punished for not securing John properly.

John sat down again. He flipped open his laptop. That shrink wanted him to write about what happened to him? Fine. This would make a delightful entry: _Dear journal: Today my master passed me off to a crack shot Army colonel who tried to sexually assault me._

As the screen lit up, John saw text document was already open: two and three-digit numbers, row after row of them, with one word following each. That hadn’t been on his computer this morning; he remembered logging on to check the duty roster before going downstairs to meet Sherlock.

Next to the computer, John spotted a scattering of papers including a receipt from Costa Coffee for six plain croissants and a large black coffee, a scrap torn out of the personals section of the Guardian, and a used train ticket: return, to Waterloo. Sherlock had gone to London and come back here, to John’s room. John closed his laptop, and realized that the rest of the desk—in fact, every available flat surface in the room—was covered with detritus of Sherlock’s investigation.

“What are you up to?” John muttered.

He picked up the printed photo of the markings on the rocks, which had been scrawled on in Sherlock’s nigh-illegible hand. He grabbed a tack from the pile on the table and affixed the photo to the wall. Next, he took up the return ticket to London Waterloo. It went on the wall next to the photo. A photocopied bill of sale for a dozen slaves. The photo of the blood-spatter from the murder scene of the Chinese Ambassador’s son. An empty packet of seeds.

“Right.” John grabbed a pen from the table and tapped it against his lips. “Let’s see what we’ve got.”  
\--

 

Lestrade went to get the schedule Sally had finished, checked in with Mrs. Hudson, and ducked out to the kitchen gardens to breathe in the second-hand smoke of the house slaves taking their break from dinner preparations. He wanted to give his temper time to cool before he reported to his master.

After the dressing bell rang, Lestrade headed upstairs to the family wing of the house. He made himself take several deep breaths before opening the door to Mycroft’s room.

Mycroft stood with his back to the door, in front of the full-length mirror. His valet was fastening the studs on his dress shirt.

“You may go, Clarke,” Mycroft said.

Clarke gave a short, sharp bow and paused on his way out to pass Lestrade the dinner jacket draped over his arm. He closed the door behind him.

Lestrade laid the jacket aside and came around to button Mycroft’s waistcoat. “I didn’t lock him in his room,” he said.

“I didn’t expect you would,” Mycroft replied.

“How’s Colonel Moran?”

“Appeased. Or less angry, at the least.”

Lestrade moved behind Mycroft to help him into the jacket. He smoothed the fabric, then let his hands rest on Mycroft’s shoulders. “Did you engineer all this?”

“I’m not able to control everything, Gregory.”

When Lestrade looked up, Mycroft met his eyes in the mirror. “That’s not a no,” Lestrade pointed out.

“No, it’s not.”

Lestrade turned to grab the suit brush off the dressing table. He began tidying his master somewhat more forcefully than necessarily. “Worse could have happened to John, you know. What if he’d felt compelled to submit to Moran?”

“Would you have felt compelled in similar circumstances?”

“Of course not. I know the rules. But even if I didn’t… No, I wouldn’t have done.” When Lestrade moved away, Mycroft’s hand circled his arm, holding him in place.

“I have a great deal of faith in John Watson’s judgement,” Mycroft said. “He was not in danger.”

“I…” Lestrade wanted to ask how terrorizing John could be worth whatever outcome Mycroft was after, but he bit back the question. He trusted Mycroft, he did. There must be more to the situation than he understood. “I see,” he said, although he didn’t, not at all. He dropped his eyes and held still until Mycroft released him.

Returning to the table, Lestrade picked up the box Clarke had laid out: monogrammed cufflinks that matched Lestrade’s collar. He accepted Mycroft’s offered left wrist to fit the cufflink. “What will happen to him?” he asked.

“He’ll be made an example of.”

“How?” Lestrade held the cufflink in his hand, tightening his grip to feel the sharp point of the fastener bite into his skin.

“Clouer au pilori.”

“Clouer au pilori.” Lestrade repeated the beautiful name for an ugly act: the traditional display of a disobedient slave, designed to humiliate and degrade. “Is that what Colonel Moran demanded?”

“I suggested it.”

“Why would you do that?” He realized he was looking Mycroft in the face. He dropped his eyes down to fix on his hands as he forced them back into motion. “Sir.”

“It appealed to Moran’s sense of vanity. I can have the house guard carry out the-- ”

“No.” Lestrade finished fastening the first cufflink and straightened the cuff. “No, sir. I should be the one to explain it to him.”

“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather avoid entangling yourself in this?”

“John’s in my charge.” Lestrade lifted Mycroft’s right arm and attached the other cufflink. “He’s my responsibility, as surely as if it were Sally or Jim you had to punish. I’ll take care of it.”

“I understand.”

Lestrade lowered Mycroft’s hand, but kept hold of it. “You’re not doing this only to pull on Sherlock’s pigtails, are you?”

“Not only,” Mycroft said with a wry smile. When Lestrade frowned, Mycroft laid his fingers under Lestrade’s chin and tipped his head up to look him in the eye. “No, Gregory.”

“Alright. I trust you,” Lestrade said slowly. Still, the image of a much younger Mycroft moving tokens on a map, heedless of the true consequences, lingered in Lestrade’s mind as he followed his master out of the room.  
\--


	3. Chapter 3

The dais in the entryway outside the main dining room usually held a gargantuan display of flowers. John hadn’t thought much about what its proper use might be, but now that Lestrade had explained it, John could well believe that every venerable manor in the Empire boasted one.

“Are you alright?” Lestrade asked.

“I told you before, I’m fine.” John tested the bonds that held him in an uncomfortable position: hands bound in front of him and fasted above his head to a hook, stretched so that only the balls of his feet touched the ground. The ropes held fast, but didn’t cut into his skin.

“Too cold?” Lestrade asked.

John tried to repress the shiver that ran through him as he was reminded of his nudity. “If I were, what would you do about it?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Have them turn up the thermostat,” Lestrade said with a smirk. “Let them sweat in the dining room.”

“Thanks.” John managed to offer a weak smile in answer. “Sherlock hasn’t come back yet?”

“No one’s seen him since the morning.” Lestrade lowered his voice and leaned in. “Listen, this is only for an hour or so, until they finish dinner. You’ll do fine. They don’t expect anything of you other than to endure.”

“Yes.” Enduring would be test enough, John imagined.

“It’s better to be gagged, sometimes. At least that way you don’t have to stop yourself talking back.”

“Right.”

“I’ll come check on you after the third course.”

“Thank you.”

“Ready for the rest?”

“Get on with it,” John snapped. The waiting, and Lestrade’s kindness, were chipping away at John’s composure.

“Right.” First, Lestrade laid the thick blindfold over John’s eyes and tied it tightly at the back of his head. That way John didn’t have to watch Lestrade push the ball gag into his mouth and fasten the straps.

“Steady on. You’ll be fine, John.” Lestrade laid a hand on John’s shoulder. It warmed his skin for a moment, until Lestrade pulled away.

John heard steps retreating across the wood floor of the entryway, and then silence. He tugged gently against the bonds holding him up, but that only served to ruin his balance. He bit down hard on the gag against the pain that bloomed when his shoulders took his full weight.

He brought himself back under control immediately. Weeks in a stifling hot tent feeling his shoulder and leg radiating agony, tormented by thoughts of his failure to discharge his family’s debt had taught him the meaning of pain. This little discomfort hardly counted.

As Lestrade had said, he wasn’t expected to participate. He could allow his mind to drift: to turn his thoughts away from here and now and concentrate on something else. A hot bath later, perhaps. A proper supper charmed from Mrs. Hudson. Or, when Sherlock returned, a shouting match. Explaining to him exactly where he could fuck off to if he expected John to service his friends whenever Sherlock got bored of him.

A current of cool air passed over his skin, dragging his attention back to the present. Right, house slaves would be passing back and forth, putting the final touches on the table settings and bringing up the food. They’d see him, stretched out on display like this, an admission of his failure to please the masters of this place.

John pressed his eyes closed beneath the blindfold. He wouldn’t care who saw him. He’d done nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, the attention of the household slaves could hardly hold a candle to the feeling of exposure John had felt being examined by Sherlock: like being flayed alive with his eyes and the tips of his fingers as he’d uncovered the secrets of John’s body. How well Sherlock had learned to use them.

John pushed up with the balls of his feet to lessen the strain on his shoulders, and felt a lingering ache in his arse: dull pain from his paddling, and a sharper ache from Sherlock’s vigorous use of him this morning. John deliberately relaxed his feet, letting his shoulders take his weight again, overwhelming any lingering sensations that reminded him of Sherlock.

He could have been waiting an hour, though he suspected it had only been minutes, when he heard the chatter of many voices: Mycroft and his guests headed in for dinner. Most passed by, but someone stopped just in front of the dais where he was confined. He could feel the heat radiating from whoever stood watching him.

Footsteps--the smart click of military dress boots--circled the platform and stopped behind him. John didn’t shy away; he didn’t even blush. Let Moran look, if he wanted. Next time, John would be ready for him.

“He’s been punished before. Recently.”

“Yes. I daresay my brother’s found him a challenge.” Mycroft’s voice came from several paces away, in the direction of the door to the dining room.

“Let it not be said that you don’t appreciate good discipline, Lord Holmes.”

“I’m pleased it meets with your approval, Colonel. Shall we go in?”

Two sets of footsteps faded away. A door closed. John was left alone again in the dark.

He hummed against the gag to reassure himself he could still hear. That cheered him a bit, until he realized the tune was the one Sherlock had played for him on that damned violin, his hands moving with the smoothness and fluidity of a dancer or a painter. John stopped humming. He leaned into his restraints, letting pain blot out the memory.

Sensation brushed over the curve of John’s spine. He thought, for a moment, that it was a drop of sweat, but no—not in the chilly air of the foyer. The contact returned, firmer, and John recognized it for the touch of a finger. He twisted away sharply, swaying in his bonds. Lestrade had said no one was to touch him. _”They can look and jeer to their hearts’ content, but that can’t hurt you.”_

The contact followed John’s movements, bolder now. Fingers moved across his skin, around to his vulnerable sides, where he was normally ticklish. He couldn’t have felt less like laughing. John made a noise of protest, muffled against the gag.

“Hush, now.” A hand closed over John’s right shoulder, fingers digging painfully into his scar. John tried to move away, but couldn’t go far; his tormentor held on. “No wonder Lord Sherlock’s got bored of you already. You really are _sooo_ dull.” The grip released, leaving John gasping for air around his gag.

“Aren’t you learning anything, Johnny boy? It’s a disgrace to the house, your being allowed to serve. Our dear Lord Sherlock could do much better, don’t you agree?” The man’s voice was soft and musical, with an Irish lilt. No one John recognized. A stranger, touching John as if he had a right.

“You’re not worthy to stand at his side. Not worthy to wear this.” A cold finger traced the line of John’s neck below his collar. “Do you think he’ll keep you with him once he leaves this house? You’re just a distraction while he’s here doing his familial duty. You’re a convenient amenity, like a washroom that happens to be nearby.”

John pulled his legs up quickly and kicked back hard, toward the sound of the voice. A pained yelp was his reward. He found his footing and steadied himself, ready to defend again if need be.

“Bad dog,” the man hissed. A hand covered John’s mouth over the gag and pinched his nose shut. John shook his head, but the man fisted a hand in John’s hair, holding him still. “He’d thank me, you know, if you died. At least then you’d be a mystery. As it is, you’re nothing to him.”

John tried to throw his weight back against his assailant, but the man was too close; he had no leverage. Desperation was starting to erode his calm as oxygen became a distant memory.

“So what do you say, Doctor Watson? Shall we give your master a new case?”

From the dining room came shouting, and then a crash of breaking glass. The man released him. As John laboured for air, he could distantly hear footsteps hurrying away. The doors to the dining room slammed open.

Footsteps rushed towards him, and John prepared to kick again.

“John. Stand up.” Sherlock. “Stand, I said.”

John pushed himself up on the balls of his feet. Clever fingers worked at the clasps and knots and freed his bound wrists from the hook above his head. John’s legs threatened to buckle, but a strong arm around his waist held him up.

The doors closed with a quiet thunk. “He’s being punished, brother dear,” Mycroft said.

“How dare you touch what’s mine,” Sherlock snarled.

“You left him in a rather precarious position, I’m afraid. If I’d not intervened, more harm might have come to your property.”

Sherlock dragged John a few steps forward, and shoved him down at the edge of the dais. “Wilkes.”

“Wrong, but it hardly matters. You’ve much to learn about being responsible for your belongings, Sherlock. And there’s certainly no need to go flinging beverages around. That was too fine a wine to be wasted, surely.”

“Go eat another pudding, Mycroft. Haven’t you inconvenienced me enough? John, attend.”

John stumbled forward, bound hands groping blindly before him until he encountered the rough fabric of a familiar jacket.

“Come,” Sherlock snapped. Fingers hooked themselves into the ropes binding John’s wrists, and tugged him forward at an alarming rate. Unable to protest, John could only follow along in Sherlock’s wake, stumbling, naked and barefoot.  
\--

 

One of the house servants scrambled to wipe up the wine soaking into the floorboards near the head of the table. Lestrade edged over to Lady Moore’s personal slave, a sharp-faced woman only a decade or so his junior, who stood against the back wall, watching the action attentively. “Get your Lady to take them through once they’re finished, wont you?”

Her eyes moved slowly to the place where her mistress sat, then back to him, and she nodded slowly. “Yes. I can.”

“Thank you. Lord Mycroft will join them in the billiard room once this is taken care of.”

Lestrade crossed the room like a shadow, dodging the servers refilling wine glasses and the slaves standing against the walls. He politely ignored the Lords and Ladies, who were abuzz with discussion of Lord Sherlock’s little tantrum. He slipped through the doors and pushed them closed behind him.

In the foyer, Mycroft stood with his hands behind his back, looking off down the hallway. Above the dais, the empty hook swayed gently. John and Sherlock were nowhere in sight.

Lestrade came to stand the proper two steps behind his master. “Are they alright, sir?”

“I’m reasonably certain they will be.”

“Good. That’s good, sir.” Lestrade watched Mycroft closely, but he made no move to return to the dining room. “I left an extra shirt of yours in the laundry. I’ll fetch it.”

“I’ll come with you.” Mycroft turned around, offering a view of the spreading purple stain on his otherwise pristine shirt. A corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirked up. “I can’t go back in there looking like this.”

“No, sir.” Lestrade gave an answering smile. “Just... don’t intimidate the kitchen staff too much, yeah?”

Lestrade lead the way into the kitchen. He tried not to notice that the slaves’ conversations stopped completely when they saw who followed him. Mrs. Hudson scampered out of the way, eyes averted, to hush the kitchen helpers gossiping at the sink. Some of the personal slaves who weren’t serving at table had come in to catch a light supper before heading to their duties. Sally, Jim, and Molly sat in an alcove by the window, and all three looked quickly away when they saw Lestrade coming.

“This way, sir.” Lestrade held open the door to the lower level and kept his eyes fixed downwards, ever conscious of his audience. Once Mycroft had descended the stairs, he closed the door behind them, leaving the kitchen staff to draw what conclusions they would.

At the basement level, Lestrade turned right; left were offices for the house guard, as well as discipline cells, a holdover from earlier times. The laundry room was at the end of the hall, deserted at this hour. Lestrade easily found the shirt he needed: hung up and pressed by one of the house slaves. He’d have to remember to thank them.

“Here, sir.” Lestrade helped Mycroft off with his jacket and took stock of the damage. “The waistcoat’s a loss for tonight, but with a new shirt you should look presentable.”

He removed his master’s wine-stained waistcoat, then started on the shirt studs and cufflinks. While he worked, he snuck a look at Mycroft, who was staring fixedly into middle distance.

“Something wrong, sir?” he asked.

“Sherlock went to London today.”

“Did he?” Lestrade slid Mycroft’s arms out of the shirt and turned to set aside the soiled clothes. He knew he had no hope of extracting information Mycroft didn’t want to share. Still, if he took care not to draw attention to himself, Mycroft might continue to think aloud.

“It’s past four in the morning in Beijing. This may affect our timeline.”

“Why’s that, sir?”

“Hm?” Mycroft glanced over at Lestrade, as if surprised to see him standing there. “Oh, it’s nothing. I hadn’t expected Sherlock to be quite so tenacious.”

“Then you should have known better, sir.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Quite.”

“In any case,” Lestrade said as he helped his master into the clean shirt, “he didn’t seem to appreciate John’s punishment.”

“I thought John handled it rather well.”

Lestrade began to fasten the studs onto the new shirt as he considered that statement. Finally, he offered his honest assessment. “John Watson neither a weak man nor a coward, sir.”

Mycroft’s hands closed over Lestrade’s, stilling it. “No, I daresay he is not.” He squeezed Lestrade’s hand, then released it, standing passively again to let Lestrade dress him.

“Was Lord Moran pleased?” Lestrade asked.

“Fairly pleased, yes.”

That didn’t sound promising. Lestrade would have to warn John to keep out of Colonel Moran’s way. “He suggested something worse, didn’t he.”

“I’d rather not discuss it.”

Lestrade frowned to imagine Moran, as enraged as he’d been, proposing punishments to Mycroft. “Even if he didn’t outright suggest something, he could have.”

“Put it out of your mind, Gregory. It’s finished.”

Lestrade retrieved the jacket and folded it over his arm. “I should have warned him. I saw Sherlock send him out with those two. I should have figured it out. I knew what could happen.”

Mycroft stepped forward to wrap his arms around Lestrade and pull him into an embrace. “You can’t control everything that happens to the slaves in this house.”

“No more can you,” Lestrade muttered against Mycroft’s chest. “You come closer, far closer, but some things will always be beyond your control.”

Mycroft smoothed a hand through Lestrade’s hair. “Believe me, Gregory, I appreciate the limits of my power.” He drew back and held Lestrade at arm’s length. “You should take care to do the same.”

Lestrade nodded and dropped his eyes. He moved quickly behind Mycroft to hold up the jacket before his master could observe the flush that crept over his face. He shouldn’t have overstepped his bounds in this. John was lucky to have escaped with such a lenient punishment, and Lestrade should have left it at that. Once the jacket was on, Lestrade gave the garment a quick going over with a clothes brush. “There,” he said. “Reasonably presentable.”

“Thank you. I’ll go back and join the others for a quick brandy. Lord Wilkes and Captain Lennox will snipe each other to death, else.” Mycroft headed into the hallway and Lestrade followed.

“Shall I attend, sir?”

“No. Tell them to send Clarke in after I’ve gone up.” Mycroft stopped at the front of the steps and leaned in to press a brief kiss to Lestrade’s cheek. “Goodnight, Gregory.”

“Goodnight, sir.” Lestrade watched Mycroft ascend without him until he’d disappeared from view, then went about his duties.  
\--

 

Without his sight, John quickly lost track of his mental map of the house. He’d no idea where Sherlock was leading him, except that, since he felt rugs under his bare feet and not cold floorboards, they weren’t in the slave wing.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, leaving John to blunder into him. A door clicked open, and John was pulled forward again. This must be Sherlock’s room. When he thought to consider it, the smell was distinctive: chemical sharpness and old smoke. The door closed, and immediately John was shoved backwards. His back hit the door, his footing slipped, and without his hands to balance, John tumbled to the floor.

“Alright?” Sherlock demanded. “Are you alright?”

John nodded. He wasn’t sure when he’d revised his definition of “alright” to include being naked, cold, tied up, and helpless on the floor at his master’s feet, but there it was.

Sherlock dropped to the ground in front of John. He leaned his forehead to John’s, wrapped his hand around the back of John’s neck, and held on. For a moment, John curled into the touch. The whole day had been tense and difficult, and this felt safe. _Sherlock_ felt safe. But he wasn’t, John remembered. He wasn’t at all.

John shoved Sherlock away with his bound hands and pushed himself to his feet. Sherlock followed and caught him by the elbow. John wrenched free and stumbled a few steps in the opposite direction, hands outstretched to avoid bashing into any furniture.

“Why are you angry?” Sherlock asked. His voice came from entirely too near. “It wasn’t I who punished you!” His hand landed against John’s wrist.

John slammed his shoulder forward, made contact, and heard Sherlock stagger backwards. John kept moving until he felt a stretch of wall before him. He stopped moving and listened hard. He’d learned to listen well, those first months in Afghanistan, at night, sure that every sound heralded an attack.

“I didn’t do anything!” Fingers against John’s back this time.

John spun away from Sherlock’s touch and backed up one quick step, another. His back thudded against something solid--cupboard. Fewer directions for the enemy to come at him. Was Sherlock the enemy?

“John.”

John’s fingers curled against his palm. Weaponless. If he had his gun--he wouldn’t shoot, couldn’t shoot Sherlock, but he’d like to hold his gun just the same, if only to remind his master that he was dangerous, damn it.

“Come _here_.”

Sherlock grabbed at him again. John launched himself forward and slammed into Sherlock, who crumbled backwards. John landed on top. He clamped his knees against Sherlock’s hips to pin him, and dropped his full weight forward onto Sherlock’s chest to quell his struggles. He angled his arm to the side--awkward with the rope, but he managed--and shoved it up to slot against Sherlock’s throat.

With the advantage of free hands, Sherlock tried to drag john off. He played dirty--fisting a hand in John’s hair and pulling insistently--but John had learned to embrace pain as a friend, so he didn’t yield. Still, he held back from leaning forward, crushing Sherlock’s trachea and cutting off his breath for good. He shook his head against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock croaked, as dumb as John, voice stoppered by lack of breath. Two of Sherlock’s fingers hooked under the back of John’s collar and tugged twice, like a signal. Like this was a friendly wrestling match and he wanted to tap out.

John’s anger drained out of him, and he slumped onto his side against the rug. Sherlock squirmed out from under him. For a moment only their breath disturbed the silence of the room.

A cautious touch came to rest against John’s knee. He jerked away.

Sherlock stood, retreated a few steps. His voice came from a safe distance. “If I can’t touch you, I can’t see if you’re hurt. Let me see. Please, John.”

John got his feet under him somehow and fumbled his way to a standing position. He heard Sherlock’s approach, and felt the heat of his body standing close, close but not touching, perhaps making sure John wouldn’t bolt again. Then Sherlock draped his arms around John’s neck. He shuffled his feet in between John’s, and pressed against him, his clothed form to John’s naked one.

Sherlock stayed there, caging John with his body and breathing his air, and John began to wonder if Sherlock’s eyes were open or closed: if he was watching John, waiting for something. “Is this what it feels like?” Sherlock asked at last. “Like a single channel drowning out all other thought? It’s horrible.”

John made a noise of inquiry, which was muffled by the gag, but Sherlock didn’t answer. Instead, his hands moved quickly and precisely over John’s body: tracing the outline of the scar on his shoulder, pressing against the muscle of his bicep, thumbing over the jut of his hip, tapping against the side of his knee. His thumb scraped against the small scar at the base of John’s spine where his slave ID chip had been implanted. His palm rubbed across John’s ass, chasing the fading marks from last night’s punishment. The touch, possessive as it was, had John’s cock hardening between his legs.

The little evaluation ended with Sherlock fingering the tag on John’s collar. “It’s not enough,” he muttered. “Not nearly enough.” Sherlock drew back. “Come,” he said.

John stumbled forward, reaching in front with his hands, until Sherlock grabbed John’s bound wrists and dragged him onto the bed.

Sherlock grazed his mouth down John’s neck and rutted against his leg. “They should have seen my claim on you. They should have known,” he said. Sherlock dug his fingers into the muscle of John’s ass, making him gasp in reawakened pain. “You said I could have you.”

John tossed his head side to side. He didn’t remember that. In fact, he distinctly recalled saying that Sherlock _could not_ have all of him.

“You are mine, you _are_ , John. You chose.” Sherlock tapped at John’s collar. His hips continued to undulate against John’s side. “You said yes.”

John pushed his head back against the bed and gulped in air as best he could around the gag. God help him, he had said yes. He had agreed and capitulated and given in to each thing Sherlock wanted, and he hadn’t noticed, because it hadn’t felt like surrender.

“Don’t lie to me. It’s not fair. I don’t lie to you.” Sherlock drew back at John’s outraged huff of breath. “I don’t. What would be the point?

John tried half-heartedly to pull away, but Sherlock held him in place. His thoughts seemed similarly trapped as they re-played Sherlock’s words, looking for anything that could be called a lie. If there’d been any, John couldn’t recall them. He could hear the sinister whisper in his ear of the man who’d tormented him earlier, who’d called him a disgrace, _unworthy_ , that he was the same useless sod who’d been sent away from his calling in Afghanistan to wander around this house like a ghost. Sherlock had changed that. Sherlock had _chosen_ John, and John had accepted.

“Now, tell me.” Sherlock loosed one hand to trail down John’s belly. He teased his knuckles over the flushed head of John’s cock. “Did you lie, when you said I could have you? Did you lie to me?”

John shook his head. He didn’t lie; he was a crap liar, always had been. He hadn’t said anything false; in fact, he’d said more than he meant to: that he fantasized about being in a relationship with Sherlock, that he didn’t hate the man, that he’d never been in love before, but that he bloody well might be now. John laughed into his gag; even if he were as capable of deception as Sherlock seemed to think, he would have never been able to keep up with Sherlock Holmes. Naked, unvarnished truth was the only defence that still held against his master. John shook his head, and kept shaking it until Sherlock closed his hand around John’s erection.

“I believe you,” Sherlock whispered.

John reached up with tied wrists and encountered Sherlock’s chest, unfairly encased in clothes. He tugged Sherlock toward him. One leg swung over John’s hip, and Sherlock landed astride John. Bound though he might be, John didn’t feel trapped. He bucked up to grind against Sherlock’s clothed arse.

“John.” Sherlock squirmed against him. The sound of a zip going down reached John’s ears, then the sound of wet flesh as Sherlock touched himself.

John thrust up again. The sound of his name in Sherlock’s voice—knowing Sherlock had gotten hard from this, just from waiting for John to _let_ him, had him straining for some kind of stimulation. He grunted into his gag and rolled his hips, squeezing his eyes closed behind the blindfold as the pressure sent sparks of pleasure dancing across his nerves.

Sherlock moved, taking away even that. John’s muffled protests were quelled when the mattress shifted under Sherlock’s weight as he moved. A moment later, Sherlock’s mouth sank down around John’s cock.

John wished he could see. He could imagine how Sherlock looked: that hair falling into his face, those eyes alight with interest and self-satisfaction, that clever mouth stretched around John. He would take this from John, too, take all of him, until he’d consumed everything John could give him. John wanted this image to cut into his memory and form a scar: something he could revisit whenever he began to doubt his decision. Only Sherlock could do this to him—for him: turn pain to healing and danger to ardour.

Sherlock pushed down farther until John nudged at the back of his throat. John dug his fingers into the sheets, trying to hold himself back. When he writhed, his arse pressed into the bed, sending lingering pain to chase arousal through his bloodstream. Caught between Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock’s marks, John had no chance. John shouted into his gag, and Sherlock stayed where he was, swallowing around John’s cock as he spent himself.

John dropped his head back against the duvet. In the darkness behind his blindfold, he could be gloriously oblivious. And he was certain to stop shaking any minute now.

Sherlock pulled his mouth slowly off John’s length and proceeded to lick at the slit, chasing every last drop of him. John could hear the slick, frantic sound of flesh on flesh: Sherlock bringing himself off. Then a sharp intake of breath, a clench of Sherlock’s hand against John’s thigh. Sherlock groaned outrageously, sending unbearable vibrations through John as he reached his peak.

Too much, too sensitive. John tried to roll over, but Sherlock kept him in place with a hand on his hip. His tongue swirled around the head of John’s cock.

“Stop,” John moaned against the gag. “Quit it.” He tried to swat at Sherlock’s head, but his bound hands were heavy and sluggish.

All the same, Sherlock left off torturing him and crawled up the bed. His fingers delved behind John’s head and fiddled with the clasps until the gag came loose. Sherlock pulled it out of his mouth gently. John heard the clunk of it being set down.

John worked his sore jaw from side to side. He was grateful to be able to breathe freely again. He swallowed several times, and stuck out his tongue just for the novelty of it. He heard Sherlock huff from somewhere nearby.

John brought his hands up to pull off the blindfold. The lamplight seemed torturously bright after so long in darkness. John blinked rapidly for a few seconds until his sight resolved.

The first thing he saw was Sherlock, lying on his side with his head propped in his hand, watching John intently.

“What did you say?” Sherlock asked.

“Stop. I said stop.” John rolled onto his side to face his master. “And for future reference, you don’t use gags unless you’ve worked out some safety signal in advance. A handkerchief in my hand, so I can drop it if there’s a problem.”

“Oh,” he said. John recognized the sight of rapid thought going on behind Sherlock’s eyes. “Did I--?”

“It’s fine,” John interrupted. “This was fine.”

“Good.” Sherlock sat up and began settling his clothes into a state of presentableness. “Now, tell me what you learned about Wilkes and Moran.”

John blinked at him. Perhaps his orgasm had short-circuited his brain function, or perhaps this was one of those bewildering leaps of logic John wouldn’t have had a chance of following even if he’d been at the peak of his mental abilities. “What?” he asked.

“Wilkes and Moran,” Sherlock said impatiently. “I need a full report on their activities.”

“I can not...” John wasn’t even sure how to end that sentence. “You want a report?”

“Yes.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Or I could berate you for allowing yourself to be punished by Mycroft again. However, I’m given to understand that there’s a period known as afterglow one is meant to experience after orgasm, so I thought I’d introduce a more neutral topic. Would you prefer to offer an explanation for your misbehaviour?”

“In case you haven’t calculated this with your massive intellect, I can’t actually stop Lord Mycroft punishing me.”

“But you needn’t give him reason to do so. You struck a Lord!”Sherlock threw his hands up. “Even a moron such as yourself must have understood there’d be consequences.”

“You gave me to him! You passed me off like I was a book you were loaning out.”

“I don’t loan my books,” Sherlock scoffed.

“All the worse!” John slid off the bed, using his still-bound hands for awkward leverage.

Sherlock rolled off the bed and followed him. “You were meant to be listening to their conversations, finding out why they’d come. Not seducing them!”

“Seducing? I—! No. No. It’s like arguing with a child.” John forced himself to speak calmly. “Did you consider letting me in on your little plan? Then perhaps I would have realized I wasn’t being whored out.”

“I didn’t give him permission to touch you,” Sherlock said slowly, with the air of one explaining an obvious truth to a simpleton. “I merely offered to let you tag along.”

“Really?” John snatched a discarded towel from the floor and tried to wipe himself clean of Sherlock’s mess. “‘I don’t need his services, you’re welcome to them.’ Does that sound at all suggestive to you?”

“No.”

“Then you must be deaf, sir. Colonel Moran got your message quite clearly.” John let himself drop to the floor and settled cross-legged, with his forehead pressed to his bound hands. He felt unbearably tired.

Sherlock came to stand behind him. He remained silent for a full minute. At last, he asked, “Did he... hurt you?”

“No. No, Sherlock, he merely tried to hold me down and...” John took a deep breath. “I made him stop.”

“Good. Good” Sherlock seemed to consider. “But honestly, John, you could have been a bit more careful. You gave him cause to lodge a complaint with Mycroft. What were you thinking, to put yourself into his power like that?”

John shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the protests of his tired body. “No one else will look out for my well-being, and so I’ve got to do it myself.”

“It’s not yours to do. I own you, and I’m to decide what happens to you. You’re not to let anyone else touch you. That’s twice now—twice you’ve allowed yourself to be punished.” Sherlock jabbed a finger at him. “You’re meant to be mine!”

“If you want me to stay out of trouble, you could start by avoiding it yourself!” John shouted.

“You’re not to speak to me that way.” Sherlock drew himself up to his full height. “If your goal is to avoid further punishment, you’d do better to learn your place.”

“You want me to be the perfect slave, then, master?”

“Yes.”

“Fine.” John dropped to his knees on the rug and clenched his jaw against the pain of the motion. He fixed his eyes properly on the floor. “Use me how you will, sir.”

Sherlock turned and stalked away, then returned almost immediately, at speed. John braced himself to be struck. Instead, Sherlock fell to his knees before John.

“Don’t,” Sherlock said. “Don’t do that.” He grabbed John’s neck with both hands and pulled him forward into a kiss. Like their coupling, the kiss was rough and messy. Sherlock’s sharp teeth caught against John’s lip, and John licked a stripe across Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock’s tongue delved inside John’s mouth, exploring and claiming.

When Sherlock had sufficiently delivered his message, he slumped forwards, hooking his chin over John’s shoulder. “I may have misjudged the danger Moran presented,” he muttered.

“Are you saying you made a mistake?” John asked.

“You know I loathe repeating myself.”

John nodded against Sherlock’s back. He hadn’t expected a proper apology, not really. He wondered, for a moment, how much Sherlock had deduced about Moran and about the punishment, how much Sherlock truly understood the danger. There was a time he would have assumed Sherlock had figured out every detail, but John knew as well as anyone that Sherlock was not infallible. He couldn’t possibly know about the man who’d threatened John while he was helpless, on display. Hell, John couldn’t have sworn that he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing. Certainly Sherlock would enjoy pointing out John’s error if he had imagined it, but that might involve telling Sherlock what the phantasm had said, and if it had indeed been the work of John’s imagination, then the things he’d said might be a bit too revealing. John resolved to ask Lestrade, first. Perhaps such squabbles were commonplace among slaves; he might have a likely suspect in mind.

“John,” Sherlock prompted. “We’re sorted, then?”

“I’m still angry,” John said. “I just wanted you to know.” He closed his eyes. He couldn’t explain why, exactly, he was even attempting to explain. Sherlock had no reason to listen to his slave’s opinion. Still, Sherlock seemed to have been making genuine efforts in recent days to understand John’s point of view. It wouldn’t have been fair to deny him relevant data. “What’s wrong here, Sherlock... It’s not going to be fixed with a make-up shag and some fantastic snogging.”

“I see.” Sherlock unfolded himself to a relatively upright position, only to stumble over to the couch and collapse there, hands steepled beneath his chin.

John levered himself upwards from the floor—slowly, mindful of the trials he’d put his body through tonight. He settled into the armchair opposite his master and waited.

Several minutes passed in silence before Sherlock’s eyes slide gradually over to fix on John. “If it’s true that you do have... some experience being in love, then how to you propose we fix this?”

John had, optimistically, in his estimation, been considering that very question. “I can’t be wandering around blind—metaphorically blind, Sherlock—wondering what you’ll expect me to do,” he said. “I want a promise.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of promise?”

John took a long breath. He didn’t want to give Sherlock a weapon to use against him, but then again, the man noticed everything. He couldn’t have missed how much John’s encounter with Colonel Moran had upset him. No, if John had any hope of getting what he wanted, he had to ask. “Exclusivity,” John said.

“What?” Sherlock sat up.

“You and me. No one else.”

“I know what exclusivity means, John. Why?”

“I think I can manage if it’s just us, just this.” He gestured between them. John had already given more than he’d ever intended. Sherlock had claimed things John hadn’t even known he had until they ended up in Sherlock’s possession. He was far past the hope of retaining any part of himself, but he hoped, at least, that Sherlock wouldn’t break him apart and give away the pieces. “Can it just be that? Is that enough? How much more do you need, for God’s sake?”

“You’re enough,” Sherlock said, looking at the floor.

“Am I?”

“If that’s what it takes to keep you, then fine.” Sherlock leaned forward. “Because I will keep you, John. Make no mistake about that.”

“Fine.” John let out the breath he’d been holding. “I knew you had a jealous streak.”

“No I haven’t,” Sherlock said immediately.

“Yes you have.” A smile arrived unexpectedly on John’s face. Still, he needed to complete the business at hand. “Good. So that’s it, then. No trading me, loaning me out, or passing me around.”

“Agreed.” Sherlock returned to his supine position and folded his hands together again. “Committed monogamy is the term, I believe. It’s not a common arrangement for masters and personal slaves, but it’s not entirely unheard of.”

“It’s only monogamy if we both....” John stumbled to a halt. Obviously, Sherlock knew the meaning of the word monogamy. John replayed their conversation in his head, and could come to only one conclusion: Sherlock had promised—had been willing to promise—to be faithful to John. “Right. Yes. Agreed,” he said quickly. He considered telling Sherlock that wasn’t what he’d meant to imply. After all, was he certain he wanted to be the exclusive focus of his master’s sexual attention? He threw a quick glance at Sherlock, who had his eyes closed. He looked positively serene.

“I... Fine.” John pushed himself up out of his chair, shuffled across the room, and threw himself face down on the bed.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s voice came from suspiciously close to the bed.

“Sleeping,” John groaned. “I did spend all day tromping around the estate.”

“No. I still need a full report. Everything Wilkes and Moran said or did. Tell me.”

John cracked one eye open to see Sherlock looming over him. “I’m not getting to sleeping until I tell you, am I?”

“No.”

“Fine.” John rolled onto his back. “At least untie my hands.”

Sherlock angled his head to the side, and the expression on his face might have charitably been described as a smile. “I’ll consider it.”


End file.
